The F--- Poem

by Brett Rutherford

Word I won’t say,
Word I won’t write,
Word I wince
to listen to,
and pity the speaker
for ignorance
and verbal incontinence,

word that should make
even a peasant blush.
Films laced with it
I leave, postings and memes
I hide from all view.

Citizens:
how will peace come
when f---
is your mantra?

Will blessings come
by invoking
Mother F---
day in and out?

I am glad to know
that Shakespeare did not
put an f---
into the mouth
of a single actor.

Strange to think
that so much depends
not on inspirations,
compulsions, labor
for love, or for the sake
of a red wheelbarrow.

Instead, the whip
that keeps them going
is the endless flashback
to penetration:

active, passive,
past, present,
subjunctive,
imperative,

F--- on,
F--- off,
like breath
or a heartbeat.

Why not just name
the whole planet F---
and be done with it?